


Benched (because Peter can't take his word for it anymore)

by AliWC



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliWC/pseuds/AliWC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small"> <cite> 'Sure, Peter had never utilized the ‘holding cells’ for him before, but nor had they come across a case in which he was a suspect since the whole Nazi treasure fiasco.' </cite> </span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benched (because Peter can't take his word for it anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: ~Spoilers for Countdown.  
> ~Strip-search scene  
>   
> Written for the collarkink prompt:  
> Peter keeps Neal in a holding cell at the FBI for a few days--either to keep him from doing something dangerous, or while he's investigating the stolen art. Bonus points for Peter searching Neal before he puts him in!
> 
>  
> 
> Cleaned up and Americanized by Mam711. All mistakes are mine. 

It was funny how one word could change Neal’s entire perception of a case.

“Hmm?” Neal said quickly, while thinking back, trying to remember everything he could about any Monets he had—allegedly—come across in the years past.

“You,” Peter repeated as he pressed the elevator button for the fourteenth floor.

“Say again?” Neal pocketed his hands, grasping for that nonchalant air that went with the wide eyes he couldn’t help right now.

Peter rolled his eyes.

“It’s an old forgery,” Peter said, completely at ease with the information he was only just now revealing to Neal. “We think it might be yours; you’re the primary suspect, Neal.”

Then Neal frowned. No, he’d racked his memory for that particular Monet and as far as he’d known it was sitting right where it was meant to be; he’d never come around to being able to steal it—ran out of time; had a date with destiny (complete with a resplendent orange suit).

“It’s not mine,” Neal announced simply. But he knew Peter couldn’t take his word. And Neal couldn’t blame him. It had been six months since the hunt for Keller had safely returned El to Peter’s arms. But the experience was a still a raw one for them both.

At first Peter had been unable to resolve his conflicting emotions and Neal had had to pay the price.  
Then one day, Peter had laid all his cards on the table for Neal. Neal would have to accept that things had changed. They both did. Neal’s radius shrank and Neal kept a wary ten feet from the line he’d previously gotten away with toeing.

Peter was more content these days because he’d stopped warring internally over his need to trust Neal against his instinct to treat Neal as a criminal. He had finally given in to simply accepting Neal’s nature. Unfortunately that meant Neal had to bow to Peter’s constant probing, check-ups, and rules in order for Peter to be able to indulge in a peace of mind.

And fortunately, because Neal was facilitating every measure Peter took, Peter was able to relax, and they soon fell back into an easy—albeit wary—camaraderie.

The initial distraction of Peter pronouncing him the suspect in their latest case gave way to Neal’s sudden realization that he’d missed the fact that Peter hadn’t pressed the number ‘21’ for the White Collar floor, but ‘14’ for …

“The lock-up?” Neal muttered as the elevator doors opened.

“Holding cells, Neal,” Peter corrected automatically. “There’s a difference.”

Neal let his head fall to the side, an outward show of wry exasperation. He followed Peter out into the hall. “Please tell me you have another suspect in there somewhere.”

“I wish,” Peter replied as he stepped up to the plexiglass pane in which there was a window, beyond which a guard sat reading a book entitled ‘Kite-flying for Dummies’.

“Hi,” Peter said pointedly.

The guard looked up, sighed and closed the book. “There’s no one in and I’ve gotten no paperwork. There’s been no prisoner transfers and no one has been processed in or out today.”

Peter looked back, a tad bemused. What—did this guy think he was selling Girl Scout cookies? Maybe he could wait instead of reeling off a line of rubbish that Peter didn’t have time to listen to.

“Yeah,” Peter started, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, shifting his jacket aside. It was an automatic display of dominance. Even if Peter didn’t know it, Neal did. He’d noticed that most of the ‘big dogs’ in the Bureau did it unconsciously to show off one of two things—or both—either the badge, or the gun. “No, I’m here to put Caffrey in for a few days.”

Peter tilted his head in Neal’s direction. The guard looked over Peter’s shoulder, took note of Neal’s presence then pulled out a form and slapped a pen down.

Neal didn’t even bother acting scandalized. Sure, Peter had never utilized the ‘holding cells’ for him before, but nor had they come across a case in which Neal was a suspect since the whole Nazi treasure fiasco.

“I was hoping to keep it off the books,” Peter told the guard.

The guard blinked, his mouth open, like he was too stupid to process faster. “If you want him fed, you need the form filled out.”

“I can take care of his meals,” Peter assured the guy.

“Fine,” the guard grunted, shrugging. “No sweat off my back. But I still need the arrest pap—”

“Neal’s already in my custody—the FBI’s, under my supervision,” Peter said impatiently. “You can confirm with AD Hughes.”

The guard gave a long-suffering sigh and snatched back the form and pen before sliding them aside, while never taking his gaze off Peter. “Did you want someone to—”

“No,” Peter murmured, moving back and looking toward the locked door that would open just as soon as the malcontent guard deigned to press the damn button. “I can sort him out myself. Cell number?”

“Take your pick,” the guard said as he waved dismissively. Then he smirked at Neal while picking up his book. “Enjoy your stay.”

Peter motioned for Neal’s arm. Neal gritted his teeth and allowed Peter to lead him through the door as it buzzed open.

“Peter, even if it were my forgery ...” Neal tried. “... surely having me by your side would work better?”

Peter had expected Neal’s protests, naturally, so he didn’t hesitate in his answer, having already prepared one.

“No,” Peter said softly. “Last time you were motivated to keep a certain painting out of FBI hands, you stole it from under my nose … remember?”

Neal pressed his lips together. He had to give Peter that one. He had gone to extraordinary measures to steal a painting that would’ve implicated him in the biggest theft of the century: the Nazi treasure. Still, he wanted to insist that that was different.

“Someone will need to call June,” Neal said instead.

Peter nodded as he veered off to the left, before opening a door and standing aside. “I’ll call June. Don’t worry.”

Neal walked into the room and stopped short. “This isn’t a holding cell.”

The room was plain, white, private, and contained nothing except a bench along one wall with cabinets built into it.

“No,” Peter agreed. “You need to change. And….”

Neal turned to look at Peter incredulously. “You’re going to strip search me?”

“It’s the rules,” Peter answered. “Besides, you probably have ten picks on you somewhere.”

Neal sighed. “I don’t suppose my giving them to you will be enough?”

Peter gave Neal a look that at first seemed to be telling Neal to ‘cowboy up’, but then Neal could have sworn he saw a flicker of longing.

Neal realized it probably would have been enough for Peter-his-friend, but it wasn’t for Peter-the-agent. Neal knew—despite Peter’s newfound peace in dealing with him by keeping an arm’s length between them while still appreciating the friendship aspect—that Peter was still struggling on a few levels.

Neal inhaled and decided to get it over with. He pulled his tie loose and shrugged off his jacket before standing, looking expectantly at Peter.

When Peter just looked blankly back at him, Neal huffed softly. “Surely there’re nice brand-new plastic storage bags for classics to be properly preserved in?”

Peter grinned. “Hold on.” He rifled through the cabinets until he found what he was looking for.

“No,” Neal said, shaking his head. “These are not going in that.”

Peter had brought out a fraying plastic basket that had clearly been used many times. The agent put the basket on the bench and frowned at Neal. Couldn’t he ever keep things simple?

“I’ll take them,” Peter decided.

But Neal looked far from reassured. He started to shake his head.

“It’s either me or that,” Peter said quickly. “I’ll hang them up when I get home.”

Neal considered the basket, but he finally decided the snag probability was too high and he nodded to Peter, giving the man permission to take his precious belongings.

When Neal was left with only underwear remaining, he sent Peter a cursory glance. It was long enough for Peter to tilt his head indicating a slight ‘no’. Neal stifled a sigh and stripped off his underwear, before placing the folded articles onto the bench.

Despite his reluctance to strip completely, Neal didn’t seem bashful in the slightest. He stepped away from the bench, pointedly returning to within the painted yellow square on the floor before crossing his arms.

Peter, at many times during his career, had had to perform a pat-down. A few times he’d had to perform a slightly-more invasive search but only once in the past had he ever found himself having to do a strip search. It was not an aspect of his job that he enjoyed, but the last thing he wanted was to subject Neal to the experience of being searched by anyone else in the building—they were his colleagues, for god’s sake. So he reminded himself that he was doing Neal a favor; Neal would know that he would forget the incident as soon as it was done with and there’d be no derogatory remarks coming from him either.

But Peter also knew Neal, fortunately, so he wasn’t going to have to delve too deeply; Neal wasn’t the kind of guy to hide a lock pick in his butt. He had way too much dignity for that. And sense.

So Peter put on a pair of gloves and started with Neal’s head as a courtesy. He checked to see if Neal was ready first and when Neal gave a nod, Peter moved around behind Neal and started with the hair, carding his fingers through, before checking behind his ears and lifting Neal’s chin, running fingers along his jawline before moving around the front again. Neal didn’t even have to bend, because Peter had a few inches on him.

“Say ‘ah’,” Peter instructed softly, but he needn’t have. Neal was familiar with the process but he did give Peter an exasperated look as he reluctantly obeyed. Peter ran a cursory finger along Neal’s gums, remembering as he did so the last time he’d had to do this; he’d been so fearful that the arrestee was going to bite down and sever his finger, but there was no chance of that happening here. And he was grateful, really. He showed that gratitude by making the search quick.

Neal lubricated his mouth after Peter removed the gloved finger, while showing distaste. Peter gave a sympathetic grimace. No one liked the taste of latex and whatever the white powdery stuff was. Peter changed gloves, not wanting to rub Neal’s own saliva over his skin.

But the new gloves weren’t that necessary; the remainder of the search consisted mostly of Peter giving directions and Neal following them while—according to Peter’s suspicions—imagining in play-by-play how he would go about forging an ‘unforgeable’ high-clearance Bureau I.D. card in order to disassociate with what he was being forced to do.

Peter focused on being clinical. He ignored the ripples of goosebumps on Neal’s skin as he automatically guided Neal, sometimes lifting his arms a bit higher as he checked the armpits, moving around him to do a three-sixty degree check-over. Then it was lift each foot, spread the toes, spread the legs, spread the buttocks, and finally lift the penis and scrotum.

It was odd, but Peter reckoned he would have been more comfortable if Neal protested a little or flushed or something to indicate embarrassment, because then Peter would have reassured Neal and felt a little comforted by his own assurances that it was no big deal—and he knew it was illogical—but the patient and methodical way in which Neal complied almost robotically made Peter even more uncomfortable. He was under no delusions about Neal having been in prison, but he thought the guy, as outspoken and independent as he was, should at least have a few objections, and he might have once, but Peter reckoned that had been drained out of him by the sheer lack of privacy and sympathy he would have had to accept for four years, which had seen Neal become resigned to the treatment.

So Peter spoke to break his tension. “What are you thinking?” He moved away towards the cabinet to cover his anxiety. In the third cabinet along he found a brand new, still-packaged cotton outfit—gray and loose, a two-piece, unnumbered—and ripped the plastic off. Then he realized, as he turned to find Neal still standing, gazing off into the distance, that Neal had lost himself to the monotony of habit too well; he’d completely missed the fact that Peter had finished, spoken, and moved away.

“Neal?” Peter said awkwardly, dumping the outfit on the bench. “You can, uh … you can drop yourself now.”

Neal blinked and looked at Peter. He looked down and cleared his throat. He let himself go and looked back up, a pink tinge appearing on his neck.

“You were thinking deep,” Peter pointed out hesitantly, offering an explanation.

Neal nodded. “Not really,” he answered, recovering quickly. “I was thinking that I’ve only got twelve months to go … give or take a week.”

Peter nodded, turned and picked up Neal’s underwear, taking refuge in his job: the one where he had to check the band, the stitching and crotch for any hidden objects. Then he inhaled and very gratefully decided Neal could have his underwear back.

Neal took the silk, cautiously fiddling with the band. He could feel Peter’s worry. “Nothing bad happened; Warden Haskley was all right and the guards did their job, nothing more.”

Peter felt relief wash over him. But … he looked up and gritted his jaw. If the process was all it was ever meant to be, why was Neal phasing it out?

Neal seemed to sense his question. “We were treated a lot like livestock … when they were done with someone they’d give a slap to move us along. Very, um … boring and impersonal for them really, inspecting hundreds of dirty, crowded, and ungrateful men daily. They encouraged the mindless compliance. Made for more peace and a smooth operation … and I guess I hadn’t realized how much I….”

“Became one of the crowd?” Peter asked quietly. “I understand. Something happens often enough … it becomes as normal as….” Peter trailed off. What was normal? “So, you were expecting a slap?”

Neal grinned, unable to help the new flush. “You always were direct. It’s weird, but … yeah.”

Peter nodded. “Get dressed. There’re your clothes.”

As Neal was putting the cotton v-neck shirt over his head and pulling his arms through, he spoke. “How long are you going to store me here?”

Peter gave a bemused snort. “Store you?”

“Sure,” Neal gave a muffled reply and shrugged, lost in the fabric for a second. “I’ll be gathering dust.”

Peter walked over to the door and clasped the knob. “Not sure … once we clear you, I’ll bring you straight back.”

“Once you clear me?” Neal repeated softly. He lowered the shirt around his waist cautiously.

“Yeah,” Peter replied easily. “You said it wasn’t yours, right? Well, I believe you.”

Neal felt a rush of warmth at Peter words. It wasn’t even stymied by the fact that despite Peter’s belief he was still locking Neal up, forcing the con man to cool his heels for a few days. Neal wasn’t going to say anything: this was part of the new ‘deal-with-Neal-and-avoid-getting-burned policy’; instead of Peter’s old ‘trust but verify’ approach, it was ‘believe, verify, then trust’. ‘Believe’ was first because Peter knew he had his own bad habits to break. Peter had subjected himself to taking up the habit of accepting Neal’s word to avoid a similar circumstance which led to their great divide over the Nazi treasure.

And if Neal lied to him, well, Peter would feel hurt but not guilty. Neal would only have himself to blame. So, he would believe whatever Neal told him and do his best to find and present evidence to back him up. Until he couldn’t.

Neal shook himself out of the warm reverie and nodded. “It’s definitely not mine, Peter.”

Peter opened the door to the hall and nodded, giving a smile. “Then trust me to clear you?”

Neal walked past. “As sure as you’ll find me wherever I go.”


End file.
